Broken Glass

Clare Wu (9) | STAFF REPORTER

It was such a funny thing, language. Sounds and pronunciations, falling into line. Obscene chaos – forced into obedience. Letters and vowels and consonants. A language created something from nothing. He was perfectly in love with life, with living, speaking. Projecting his thoughts to the heavens, sharing this joy of his to whomever would pause, just listen. No matter who it was, he’d greet them with a warm smile, words already bubbling past his lips, eager to please, to laugh, to exist.  But the people in this cruel world mistook his excitement for naivete. Their own conversations spilled into his world, mocking and taunting and painful. Chatterbox, they called him. Couldn’t he ever shut up? Slowly, ever so slowly, their words slipped into his mind.
His happy inane chatter stopped. He bottled up his emotions, hid his smile, showed the world what they wanted to see.

Something from nothing. Something from nothing. He knew better now. Something can never come from nothing, and so he discarded the words he once cherished, threw away his voice and his smile, claimed it all warped and wrong and useless.

His voice became broken glass, and it cut everyone around him.

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His eyes, once the color of warm chocolate, darkened into inky pools.

His mind, once so free and joyful and young, morphed into something utterly unrecognizable. 

He seldom spoke.